


wherever i may roam.

by moonlitknight



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, IT(2017) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Partying, Underage Drinking, patrick being patrick?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitknight/pseuds/moonlitknight
Summary: Being wild under the nose of authority can pose some drawbacks.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Female Reader, Patrick Hockstetter/Reader
Kudos: 13





	wherever i may roam.

Having parties wasn’t a known rarity within the ranks of Derry, but they weren’t a known phenomenon on a superficial level, either. Within the ranks of upper class high schoolers, they were typically done in the fashion of a small circle of friends rather than anything colossal. Those instances and occasions of plenty were saved for the rare event of a musical guest. While the quality of the music wasn't considered a static variable, the fun and energy that ensued from the crowd - teens and college students, usually - was. For that, many found themselves grateful for the bands, even if they were bad metal covers of pop songs, cover bands for hot acts that didn’t make tour stops in Maine, or just song-writers who were trying to make it in the world of music.

You couldn’t complain -- you shouldn’t, really. Being the daughter of a well-off lawyer whose business was usually taken out of town, and a girl with a reputation to upkeep; these events didn’t just fly under your radar, they were on a completely different radar altogether. It sucked, really, to be thrust into expectations you didn’t care to uphold, but not having the might to fight back. So, you did what you could and lived with it.

However, living with it meant blatantly going against the rule of social rules, society, and your father all the while being directly under their nose. It was a needle-thin line to walk, but one you felt you walked with confidence and care.

Which, is how you managed to sneak out of the house undetected and attend the concert that had been whispered within the school the previous week. Spoken from under the bleachers, overheard from the bathroom by those who smoked and considered themselves too cool for the joint; who knew your keen sense of hearing would become so useful?

From the moment your father bid you a sterile adieu, composed of a hollow embrace and chaste kiss to the head, you had begun putting your plans in motion. Wherever he went, likely to a hotel for whatever trial was taking place early the next morning, or whatever, you couldn’t find it in yourself to particularly care.

Looking the part of a ‘typical’ metalhead wasn’t something you were truly infatuated with to any degree. Sure, putting on the guise of torn jeans, fishnets, boots, and whatever decimated t-shirt you could find was a great bound of comfort compared to the typical stuffy outfits you had, but it felt tiring to have not just one, but  _ two _ kinds of social guises to keep up. Polar opposites, at that. Surely, you deserve an award for it.

You ease the vehicle into park, a full street away from the actual event, to ensure the protection of the metallic body of your car. Next, you lean to look yourself in the eye -- eyes rimmed with a sharp black, smudged with burgundy eyeshadow, and lips done with a simple gloss. Had you any actual lip colors, you would’ve reached for them instead. You stare for a moment longer, admiring the well-pointed wing extending your likely bored resting face.

Stud earrings and a lazily done ponytail completed your look, the rest of your outfit accented with bits of silver jewelry you couldn’t find it in yourself to truly care about. Several rings were on your fingers, simple silver bands you had bought from thrift stores recently. In the frosty, night air you wore a black cardigan over a simple black tank top. Nondescript, you hope, and would allow you to simply blend into the background. A simple, forgettable face in the crowd. Exhaling, you prepare yourself for the night to come and push the car open.

The music, likely booming from the basement, lilts through the air with jagged electricity, and it manages to translate into your veins with a faint tingle in your fingers. You grin to yourself, already feeling the exhilaration to come. Around the premises of the home a multitude of cars appear parked, which has you thanking your mind for avoiding the mess of it. Multiple parked on the curbside, in the driveway, and also on the lawn. The image of the destroyed grass and streaky soil has you cringing internally, for the remembrance of the hard work that likely went into the landscaping. 

The open, and partially wrecked, door frame is but a glance into the chaos that took place shortly after the sun laid itself to daily rest. Broken electronics, a lamp, a shattered glass coffee table, and a bloody and unconscious stranger lying all in view. Suddenly, you felt thankful for the thick and hard soles of your boots, and preyed your balance wouldn’t be giving out on you anytime soon.

As you draw closer you hear the music increase in volume, and can only imagine the ear-shattering havoc occurring just down the stairs. A sudden shriek to your left rips you from your foot hitting the entryway of the door, instead whipping to a sudden figure being body slammed through what you assumed was the living room window. You felt a wave of relief wash over you at the fact that this wasn’t your home, but a resounding ripple of pity for whoever actually owned the place.

You quickly stepped past and shuffled through the living room, leaving the unnamed duo to brawl, the more coherent shouting briefly as a greeting. Quickly you found the kitchen, from the trail of empty and shredded beer cans, to the demolished and alarming amount of disposable cups, you snickered to yourself quietly. The volume increased as you moved more into the building, most of the partygoers sticking to their own groups and remaining calm. Wherever the violent action was, it was bound to be nearer to the actual band.

In the corner do you find one of the kegs, swiftly making yourself a drink and turning back to the face of a stranger. Ebony hair, gel-slicked to perfection, deep brown eyes, and a teetering stance; he eyes you with curiosity and an underlying sense of something  _ else _ . You shift uncomfortably when he registers your attention on him.

“Y’from here?” he slurs, prodding your shoulder aggressively.

“Nope,” a bold-faced lie, coupled with nonchalant disinterest. “You?”

“Nah, from, uh...Place a’ways from here,” he gestures with both hands, drink-filled cup sloshing with the movement and liquid threatening to spill from the open top. He leans down to your level. “Where y’from, doll?”

“Don’t quite think I’ll share where I’m from with a guy who won’t even tell me his name before getting my address,” you cringe at the stench of beer heavy on his breath and lean back.

“Oh, uhhh...Name’s, fuckin’...Michael, y’can call me Mike, though,” a grin overtakes his features while your frown deepens.

“Alright,  _ Mike _ , I’ll see’ya around,” you attempt to shift around him, to shuffle out from the keg-corner only to be blocked.

“N’awww, c’mon? I was polite, or whatever, ain’t’cha gonna tell me your name, dollface?”

“No, now let me through.”

“Or what, kitten?”

Outwardly you groan at the intrusion of your space, and also the blatant annoyance of him. His turns nearly primal while the music gets louder, a crescendo you knew you would likely have trouble yelling over.

A thin, pale finger with several rings taps itself on his shoulder, from a form you were unable to see. Michael turns around, aggravation apparent while he begins, “Can’t’cha see we’re busy h--”

He’s cut off by a jarring and strength-filled punch, falling awkward and stone-cold out on your shoulder and kegs. You watch him fall, as though it happens in slow motion, eyes wide and nearly dropping your drink. Upon turning your head you come eye-to-eye with someone who could put you in an even worse position and you feel a faint sliver of fear scurry up your spine. Patrick Hockstetter.

“Kitten,” he starts, with a deadly vocal tone which could only be described as velvet draped over gravel. You want to cringe. “That your boyfriend or somethin’?”

“Ew,  _ no _ ,” No gentle care is taken into shoving the unconscious boy’s body from yours and onto the matted, once shaggy carpeting. “Just a fuckin’ creep who didn’t know where or when to stop.”

Recognition flashes in his eyes, momentary, and he grins to himself while grabbing something to drink. It makes you uneasy, to see someone who knows everyone at your school. Your arms cross as you move to leave, until his voice speaks over the music once again.

“What brings a girl like you to a place like this?” It makes you realize just how close he’s managed to get to you, lips near your ear as though his presence engulfs you. “Careful, princess, or you just might get devoured.”

“I--” a short-lived stammer as he turns and throws an arm over your shoulders, causing you to tense.

“S’okay! I’ll be but a chaperone so you aren’t found dead by sunrise.”

“Wait,” just barely croaked out, and obviously no hindrance as he begins dragging you from the corner and into the rest of the party.

He takes you down the stairs, a bouncy lack of care going into his lengthened strides and whether or not you were able to keep up. You hold onto him, sliding an arm around his waist to try and keep balance while staring down at the floor to make sure you weren’t about to fall over.

At the bottom level is what managed to always ignite a feeling of excitement in you, set ablaze the adrenaline and flames of hardy teenage violence. A mosh pit had formed and the destruction stopped just shy of the stairs. In the air is the heavy scent of leather, sweat, and iron; all of which attacking with the force of animalistic glee. The air feels heavy, like it’s weighing down on your shoulders. Timidly, you steal a glance up at Patrick, who’s managed to get a lit cigarette betwixt his fingers and discard his drink in the time you’d been adhered to his side. He takes a long drag and licks his lips, smoke emulating the carnage of a dragon, if you could compare him to such a beast.

He looks down at you and says something you’re unable to hear over the music, and had it not been for the sheer volume, you’d likely find it to be one of the more enjoyable acts to grace Derry with its presence. His arm unwinds from around your shoulder and he plants a kiss on your forehead, to which has you reeling, before stepping into the pit and leaving you alone.

It feels unnerving, to suddenly be rid of the boy who’d claimed himself the role of your ‘evening security blanket,’ but to suddenly fear the repercussions. Eyes you know are locked on opponents or the evening’s stand feel locked on you, and you feel socially naked at the foot of the basement’s stairs with both hands wrapped around a red solo cup.

You gulp after losing sight of him among the dim room and other black-haired aggressors, taking to maneuvering yourself to a couch sat beside a grandfather clock on the outskirts of the fighting and staring into the lukewarm cup. Sips are taken from it, carefully, while a couple does what you can only describe as practically eating one another’s faces.

As time passes you begin to feel more cramped, not so much that eyes are on you any longer, but more so that the time to leave is rapidly approaching. A brief glance at the clock registers it as 11:50 p.m., and you feel a slight pang in your gut that the time to move is  _ now _ . 

You set the plastic cup on the coffee table in front of you and start off, without much of a care for who would be the poor soul to clean it up. The stairs are ascended quickly, and alarms in your mind begin to go off fervently. Wherever your evening’s chaperone had gone, he wasn’t worth getting potentially arrested for. The kitchen and living room are passed briskly, and while the quick removal of such loud noises is nothing short of disorienting, the sound of approaching sirens is enough to sober you completely.

The yard is left in the dust as you take to a full-sprint down the street, mentally cursing yourself for even coming in the first place. Wherever the authorities were, you knew that potentially crossing paths with them would be a death wish.

You only slow down and exhale when you’re in your car seat, key jammed in the ignition and letting the engine roar to life. Speeding home probably wouldn’t be the best course of action, but you can’t help the lead foot and lady luck allowing you to swing into the driveway with no detection.

Is this true nirvana, you wonder, narrowly escaping the law after a gut feeling in a place you weren’t even meant to be? Whatever the case, you knew sleep would either be impossible to grasp, or come the moment it hit your pillow.


End file.
